Last night I spent in my mother’s home. As I write today I am still at my mother’s home. This is not the house I grew up in. I actually never grew up in a single house – moving at least 23 times before I got married. But every house was my home because my mother was in it. My father’s job took him away from us but I don’t remember a single day my mother was away. Then when I was 21, she had an accident that left her hospitalised for 3 months but that was the only time she was away .
After I got married my parents decided to live abroad and sold each and every item that I remembered from my childhood. Even though they have returned home for the past 25 years, I still find it strange that I can’t see the pots I remember from my childhood. My mother too has stopped working and no more does she wear her starched cotton sarees that I could wipe my hands on.
But I still love to visit as often as I could to spend those few hours/days in her company. I have to shout to make myself heard, sometimes we don’t agree but I am happy to be home and have her next to me.